Going Postal
I needed to send some important/urgent papers back to England, this week. I had everything prepared over the weekend, and wanted to get them sent off on Monday. There’s a Post Office about half a mile from my office, but it’s always crowded at lunchtime, so I thought I’d quickly nip out mid-morning. Unfortunately, my plans to be back before anyone noticed I had gone didn’t take into consideration the permanent go-slow that the Post Office staff seem to be on.
I was about the 6th person in the queue when I got there. Not great, but pretty good compared to the usual lunchtime rush, so I patiently stood in line. Or at least I was patient for about the first 10 or 15 minutes. After that, I started getting more and more impatient as the minutes ticked by. For reasons best known to them (although I suspect it is just for their own amusement), the Post Office had only one counter open, even though I could see at least two other staff members milling around in the back, chatting away and having a jolly old time. I don’t know if there was some special occasion I was supposed to be aware of, but one of the staff was dressed in full ’70s style – complete with shades, unbuttoned shirt with medallion nestling in his chest-hair, and a fedora perched at a jaunty angle atop his otherwise bald head. The remaining staff were just dressed in standard ‘businss attire’, so maybe it was just a ‘personal expression’ thing, and this being a government job, they can’t fire you for it. Either way, he looked ridiculous, and I deigned to even acknowledge that there was anything notable about his appearance. That showed him!
So there was one cashier working – not Isaac Hayes, but some crabby, sour-faced old tosspot who, by the look on her face, had been building up a good 30 or 40 years of resentment at having such a shitty job, just waiting for me to turn up and provide the turd-topping to her shit-sandwich of a career. When I got there, she was busy serving some idiot who just turned up with a canvas duffel-bag (ok, pedants, I know that if it were a duffel bag it would be made of duffel and not canvas, but you know what I mean) that she wanted to send through the mail – apparently oblivious to the fact that stamps wouldn’t stick to the fabric. Mailperson Misery sighed, and pointed to the boxes available at the back of the room, which Dumbfuck the Bag Girl then tried to cram what looked like her laundry into, before carefully folding up the (now empty) bag and placing that on top. (Why she couldn’t have just placed the whole (full) bag into the box is a mystery.) This, coupled with an explanation of the possible shipping options took several lifetimes, but finally she was done.
She was followed by some old biddy who spent forever buying a single stamp (which is what the self-serve machines in the foyer are for), and then digging out exactly 42 cents from her purse inside another purse inside her handbag inside her shopping bag, zipping and unzipping each with the care and deliberation usually reserved for brain surgery. Throughout the transaction, she chatted cheerily about the weather, and I strongly suspect that she didn’t actually need a stamp at all, just someone to talk to. I reiterate my call for compulsory euthanasia at 70. Either that or ban them from all public facilities, except for a small window between 4 and 5 AM, when most of them are probably awake anyway.
Four more equally-exasperating customers later, I finally (finally!) made it to the counter, some 45 minutes after walking in. To speed things up, I’d taken the opportunity of my time in line to pick up the only available type of international mailing label from the rack (and the only one of that type that hadn’t been used by people for testing their biro on), and had it all filled in and ready to go. I’d also checked the posters to work out what was the fastest method of delivery, so I didn’t have to ask Groucherella any more questions than was absolutely necessary. “I need to post this, International Express Guaranteed” I announced, sliding my letter and mailing label across the counter. She looked at it, and then me, as though I’d just slid a dog poo towards her. “You can’t use this label for International Express Guaranteed. It’s for International Express”. “Well it’s the only international label available”, I countered, gesticulating towards the rack. She shot me a look that suggested I’d asked her to climb Everest with me on her back, sighed, and slowly got up and walked to the back of the counters. Slow as you like, she sauntered back, and handed me a new label, which looked exactly the same as the old label, but said International Express Guaranteed instead of just International Express across the top.  “Fill in this, and then come back”, she drawled. “You can just come back to the front; no need to go to the back of the queue”. Well, that’s something, I figured.
I petulantly tore up the International Express label in front of her to underline my annoyance, and flounced off to complete the new label.  Having done so, I elbowed my way to the front again, only to find that although I could take the coveted pole position of “Next Customer”, the current customer was trying to post a good two or three dozen boxes (probably one of those people who make their money selling their old crap on ebay) – all of which were different sizes and weights, and were going to different zip codes, so all had to be handled separately. Ten minutes later he was done, and I stepped forward again.
Miss Misery (I’m assuming she’s a Miss, as I can’t bring myself to picture her poor husband; it would be like being forced to look at those pictures of babies with cleft pallets – you just feel so sorry for what they must go thorugh) looked at my letter again, and announced “Oh, this is going to a P.O.Box. You can’t send it International Express Guaranteed – you need to send it International Express. That’s a different label.” “What, one of those ones that I just tore up??” I spluttered indcredulously. “Well I didn’t tell you to tear it up”, she announced smugly. “No, but you did tell me I didn’t need it”. “Well, I didn’t know you were sending this to a P.O. Box”, she replied. “But I showed you the letter! You looked at the address!”. Realizing she was onto a losing argument, she closed her mouth, stared at me, and silently slid a new International Express label toward me. “You’re sure, this time?” I asked, before stomping off, swearing loudly for all to hear, like one of those chumps I usually snicker at, assuming they’ve stupidly filled out the wrong form.
Third time lucky. I go back. This time she accepts my label and my letter, and we’re all good to go. However, for some reason, whereas International Express Guaranteed only takes 1-2 business days, International Express takes 3-5 business days! So despite the letter taking the same route across the Atlantic, in the same size envelope, it will somehow take 3 days longer to stuff it into a P.O. box than it would take to hunt down a named recipient and have them sign for it. How is that possible?? So urgent or not, 3-5 days (and you can bet your arse it will be 5) is the best they can do.
Or maybe it really will still only take 1-2 days, and Miss Misery was only telling me it would take 3-5 days to see if she could get the pulsating vein in my forehead to finally burst. Damn near managed it, too. It’s not the employees they need to worry about going postal, it’s the customers. I can see how they might…
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Comment from Mattee
Time 18 January 2009 at 9:18 AM
Have you read Vonnegut’s description of going to the post office, in Timequake? Perhaps he went to a different post office? Moose.